Floreskand_Wings

by Morton Faulkner

  On, the flash-flood coursed, unimpeded in its rush to the distant Varteron Edge.

  ***

  Swept abruptly from Borsalac, Courdour Alomar sank like a stone beneath the onslaught of silt-filled water.

  The flood’s tremendous force dragged him bodily along the teen-bed, battered him remorselessly, threatening to expunge every last breath of air from his protesting lungs.

  His senses reeled.

  Blindly, the warrior struggled to attain the bank he knew to be near.

  He must reach the edge! Though a dark, ancient part of his mind distantly thought, it would be ironically appropriate, death by drowning.

  ***

  Clumps of silt and slimy weed caught in Ulran’s fingers and brushed against his face but he couldn’t see anything, the murk and dust churned up was impenetrable.

  Swirling and gyrating at the whim of the raging wall of water, all he could do was slowly to leak air through teeth, bubbles breaking in his face or burgeoning to the stormy surface of foam. Cross-currents, whirling eddies, and pockets of violently contrasting current-surges tossed him as though he were a piece of timber. Bits of mud, chunks of wood, fingers of eye-piercing branches belaboured him continuously. Then, amidst the pell-mell, something heavy yet soft hit him on the temple: a dead vole or rabbit, he guessed.

  Another raging current snatched him bodily and he turned an involuntary somersault, the breath almost bursting from his tired lungs. In the same instant he realised his left leg was tangled in some weeds.

  Doubled-up, bubbles seeping out of his mouth at an alarming rate, he wrestled the leg free. Now his chest strained to breaking point.

  Must surface!

  His lungs felt on fire, muscle-ache nagging insistently, crying out for oxygen, air, air!

  Yet because the teen’s agitation prevented him rising at will, no sooner had he pointed to the surface than a sudden surge would tumble and twist him and thrust him down onto the muddy bottom. No longer was the teen shallow. He had no way of telling how far down-teen he had been hurled, either.

  And what of the others, and the horses and mules?

  Detritus, some slimy and clinging, wrapped itself around his thigh. He was set on one more attempt at surfacing but must free himself first – if only he had something more manageable than his sword.

  Movement under his hand – he could feel the thing pulsing against his thigh – this was no teenweed!

  Something thick, muscular...

  Valuable air streamed from his tight-clamped mouth, strength ebbing unavoidably. Ulran’s spanned fingers estimated the thing’s girth – at least the waist-size of a woman.

  The coils tightened upon his thigh and another – or possibly its opposite extremity – began winding across his abdomen.

  Primeval panic threatened to assault his senses; only steely control with weakening resources enabled him to keep calm, to determine the size and power of the sinuous creature. Where earlier he had anticipated cutting free with his cumbersome sword, now these constricting coils enveloped him and made it impossible to reach the weapon.

  A monstrous thumping and pounding assailed his shoulder and chest.

  Reflexively, he reached out, fist clenched in retaliation.

  His entire fist sank into something soft and fleshy – a mouth, its roof ridged but toothless, and a thick raspy tongue.

  Before the creature could react he grabbed and pulled sharply, tapping the last dregs of his reserve strength, and the thing bucked and whipped, swirling him with it, yet he held on till finally he came away with a great length of tongue, half as wide as his forearm.

  But he was done for, he knew, the creature had not relinquished its throttling hold.

  And now the water and his whole body were being pounded by an eerie, thrumming vibration, his ears bombarded with the dreadful ululation that threatened to shatter his skull with its piercing intensity.

  What little air that remained was squeezed out of his chest and he could feel his grip on consciousness slipping.

  White spots danced in his mind’s-eye, his head buzzed, he coughed once as some water seeped into his mouth.

  This was the end, then, the start of a vicious cycle, coughing to clear water and in the end only admitting even more, till the lungs drowned.

  ***

  Pummelled with debris and weighted down with his waterlogged leathers, Courdour Alomar felt his straining lungs were incapable of holding on any longer. Perversely, he had no desire to die like this; against his better judgement, he wanted to fight, to–

  Abruptly, he thudded into something hard and solid, which winded him. With the sudden blow against his stomach, he let out the last of his air, clamped his mouth shut as his head giddily spun with oxygen-starvation. But his pell-mell rush down-teen had stopped. His cloak had snagged a branch or root in the bank’s side on his right.

  Instinctively, he clawed at it, and pulled himself up hand over hand.

  Blindly, fingers feeling bloated and stubby, numbness steadily pervading him, he broke surface, and coughed and coughed as the raging flash-flood swirled round him.

  He blinked open his eyes. Life-giving air surged into his lungs.

  The root was sticking out from the top of the teen-bank on the manderon side, where the water-wall had gouged out the soft loam to bare a fibrous bush root.

  The water-bore was far down-teen to his left now. Here, the embroiled brown water had risen to the top of the bank.

  His hacking cough eased. As he pulled himself up, water gushed from him and his weapons clanged against each other.

  On hands and knees, he peered around. A few bushes similar to the one that had saved him, undulating grasses: no sign of Borsalac, Ulran or Cobrora.

  ***

  In a thrashing, spectacular mountain of white foam, they both broke the agitated surface and arched high into the air. Coughing and spluttering though he was, Ulran was quick to realise his opportunity. Calmness again prevailed; he sucked in deep gasps of air, then as his coughing died he took in hasty, continuous gulps to serve him in good stead for the coming ordeal. They plunged back under.

  Immersed again in the rolling impenetrable water, bubbles swirling noisily about his ears, his thigh numb with restricted blood-supply, his measured blows, cushioned by the water, could not penetrate the constrictor; he had sustained broken skin on his knuckles as he ineffectually belaboured the anvil-shaped skull. He tried gouging out the eyes, having glimpsed their position in the little time above-water: but always his fingers jarred against coarse, hard sacs.

  His replenished air was giving out quickly with the exertion.

  Air again gushed over his lips; his lungs screamed for fresh vitality. Unavoidably, he breathed out and the excruciating pain lessened a little.

  For a second time the gigantic constrictor whipped out of the water.

  Ulran gasped for air, preparing for the shuddering dive back into the teen. Fleetingly, he felt that next time he wouldn’t survive.

  But the duration above-water seemed longer.

  He opened his streaming eyes as he realised he was swaying. He was suspended aloft, still entwined within the constrictor’s coils. And the creature was in turn clutched within the huge talons of Scalrin.

  The fabled red tellar soared, talons clasping the constrictor’s sinuous neck. His great beak hacked at the anvil-head, and blood of a purple hue splashed over the innman. At each successive blow, the coil about Ulran’s waist slackened; and with each breath of air, his own strength returned. Now he managed to slide his sword free of its scabbard.

  Like some disjointed puppet on the end of a line, Ulran danced and jerked till he ached. He stayed his sword for the moment: they were now swaying and bobbing above the ranmeron bank and when the constrictor went limp he’d be dropped either back into the teen without sufficient strength to fight the current or he’d end up on the same side he had started from.

  “The other side, the manderon bank!” he croaked, already sensing the life ebb from t
he creature.

  Scalrin must have heard and understood: as they flew lower they crossed the teen. Now Ulran sliced upwards, his sword-point sinking deep into the under-side of the constrictor’s mouth. Repulsive blood streamed down the sword-runnel, over the guard and the innman’s hand, arm and chest, and suddenly the grassy bank rushed up to meet him.

  Fortunately, the cushioning of the constrictor’s body beneath him – still loosely girt about his waist and chest – prevented any broken bones.

  Lifeless, the constrictor’s savaged head thudded to the earth with a dull sound, and sent up a puff of dust.

  Ulran wriggled free, but was too spent to move further. He lay by the body, and a dull ache spread through him.

  ***

  An empty expanse of teen; its level was high and brushed the very edges of the banks whilst on each side the grasses were sodden and discoloured with mud. Cobrora lay in a foul-smelling muddy pool and stared forlornly at the water.

  A clink of bridle attracted attention. One of the mules was standing quite close. Cobrora groaned; then, perhaps the other was lost – with the food.

  And Sarolee, what of her?

  Again, images seared the mind, of Alomar and Ulran being swept under the gigantic wave.

  Ill-omens spoke truly, then. Cobrora shivered. Dusk was creeping across the land.

  Cautiously, the city-dweller stood up, aware that the mule was still skittish, and whispered, “Don’t fret, now.” A pace at a time, Cobrora neared the mule; it backed away, but less distance each time.

  Finally, the coaxing worked: a quick lunge and the reins were grabbed. After a few moments of calming talk and stroking, the mule was hobbled; it carried some blankets, spare poniards and cooking pans, but no food.

  Casting about, Cobrora located brushwood some distance from the spray and built a fire. The tinderbox was dry in its pouch. Cobrora shivered, as clothes needed drying out, too.

  As the mule fed, Cobrora whispered, “I hope they see the fire.” If, the chilling thought came: if they had survived.

  ***

  Courdour Alomar stripped off his clothes and wrung them out, aware how the night-frost would freeze them and him like a board.

  Try as he might, he couldn’t so easily relinquish his hold on life.

  Once dressed again, he decided to head up-teen.

  Somewhere, plains-dogs howled.

  And night was coming.

  ***

  Slowly, Ulran regained his feet as dusk settled over the land.

  Scalrin was sill perched on his kill, casting a pair of yellow eyes at the innman. Ulran felt the chill of the night seep into him as he walked over to the red tellar. He knelt before the white sekor on Scalrin’s throat and closed his eyes, communed briefly.

  The tie was transitory, or so it seemed, yet now the great bird flicked his wings, and rose majestically into the night sky.

  If the others were to be found, Scalrin would locate them.

  Circulation painfully restored, Ulran followed Scalrin at a jogging trot.

  At first he was troubled by the ugly welts that criss-crossed his chest and the dull throb of his shoulder bruise which was now the size of a melon.

  But as he loped up-teen, the tatters of his trousers slapping at his knees, his red-raw waist chafing, he lapsed into no-mindedness, and ignored the spreading ache.

  ***

  Eyes wide, staring fearfully about, Cobrora was too nervous to risk sleeping. A horrible snarl and scuffling came from the impenetrable darkness, frightening the mule on the edge of the firelight.

  Unaccustomed to a sword, Cobrora’s hand was clammy, the hilt slippery, while pacing up and down past the flickering fire, occasionally stoking the flames with more brushwood. Earlier, the thought had occurred that eyes other than those of companions might spot this fire. But now the city-dweller was becoming reckless: better to die at the hands of some warlike horde than endure much more of this nerve racking solitude!

  Must keep busy, Cobrora decided and collected wood, and built four more fires, roughly in a line with the camp, about three marks apart from each other. Then, taking a flaming brand from the first fire, Cobrora lit them all. Making sure they stayed alight would help to keep moving and alert, anyway.

  Another coughing snarl from the same direction – and Cobrora edged closer to the nearest fire.

  Then, a sudden swishing of grass, swept aside at full gallop, sent heart hammering and hand tightening on sword.

  With startling suddenness, Sarolee burst into the firelight, lathered in sweat and eyes rolling with fright.

  Relief surged through Cobrora, though it was tempered with caution. By the sounds on the edges of the surrounding darkness, wildcats had chased her.

  Despite her panic and fear, Sarolee recognised Cobrora. Once she was unsaddled and wiped down, Cobrora let her graze by the mule, near the fires.

  Cobrora no longer felt alone.

  The teen shimmered with the firelight along its side. It swirled, mocking, the level already dropping.

  A stark picture of the teen entirely drained forced itself into Cobrora’s mind: bodies twisted grotesquely, bloated and half-submerged in the slime-bed. Cobrora shuddered and resumed the rounds of the fires, hugging the cloak tight for warmth and reassurance.

  ***

  Strident and close by, the long shriek of a horse stopped Courdour in his tracks. The chill night mushroomed breath in white wisps from his panting mouth. About his eyebrows and shoulders was a layer of rime-frost.

  Instinct told him to hurry, for he recognised the cry. But caution advised otherwise. Sword in hand, he edged away from the teen bank, and headed towards Borsalac’s whinny.

  Starlight dimly illuminated the scene, sufficient for him to see Borsalac backing away. Rearing on his hind-legs, the horse’s flailing hoofs thudded fatally into a furry shape that darted upwards.

  About the trodden-flat grass lay the corpses of four plains-dogs; another five of the pack surrounded the horse, his withers streaked with blood.

  As he neared, Courdour’s night-sight perceived the throb of veins in Borsalac’s head, the whites of eyes bright and fear-ridden. The white gnashing teeth of the wild dogs and their barking snarls sent the horse into further fits of panic, circling and panting, whinnying at every sound or movement. Borsalac would know that, in the final analysis, he would become yet another kill.

  Then, as Courdour watched, planning his strategy and loosening his stiffened shoulder, a change came over his horse. Borsalac halted, sniffed the air, and his demeanour alerted the plains-dogs at the same instant.

  Master- and man-scent perceived by Borsalac and the dogs at the same time. The five snarling and snapping dogs swerved away from the horse’s deadly hoofs, now intent on Courdour Alomar, a man afoot – easy prey to the pack!

  Before the pack leader reached him, Courdour had swiftly checked the immediate fighting-ground – fairly even grassland, without stones or other obstacles. And now he crouched – ready.

  The leader leapt, the pack close on its heels. A blur of grey; slavering jaws wide and vicious; eyes red; left-hand brow scuffed bloodily and raw, courtesy of Borsalac, fur foul-smelling: the impressions leapt at Courdour as swiftly as the plains-dog.

  In one smooth movement the warrior side-stepped, passing the sword to his left hand, and swept downwards as the foiled animal gnashed at thin air and tried turning in mid-flight. The sword-blade thudded into the arched spine, its downward motion briefly arrested, then Courdour completed the down-cut and severed the wild dog in two. Before the sundered animal fell to the ground, Courdour had passed his sword back into his right hand, ready to meet the other four.

  But Borsalac had not been idle. As the four plains-dogs halted abruptly, whimpering and now snarling half-heartedly at the sight of their defeated leader, Borsalac’s great hoofs thudded down and crushed the life from the dog furthest from Courdour.

  The warrior leapt forward, sword circling, and the leader’s blood flew from the blade. The three pl
ains-dogs, completely demoralised, ran to right and left, whimpering with their bushy tails between their legs.

  Courdour thrust his sword into the grass, where it stood upright, quivering. He embraced the neck and head of his faithful Borsalac and laughed.

  His horse squeaked his affection and snorted.

  “You accounted for yourself well, my friend.”

  Later, he found only thin surface scratches on Borsalac’s withers and on one side of his neck. The saddlebags, blankets and other equipment were quit damp but otherwise intact. He withdrew a small pouch of thick mucous-like ointment, which he spread on his horse’s wounds. It clearly stung, but the trusting animal did not shy away.

  ***

  Without feeling, Ulran loped along the side of the teen. Infrequently, he emerged from no-mind, each time with more effort, his mind wishing to salve his body; but he must continue his search for a trace of the others, though his eyes had to strain to detect any clue in the poor starlight.

  At a rather sharp bend in the teen the racing torrent had evidently over-flowed and battered the banks, upturned the soil. Here, Ulran stopped, detecting some kind of movement at the water’s edge.

  At this point the rows of leech-tree stumps jutted blackly along the teen’s side; one had been violently uprooted by the water-wall’s force, another was askew, roots sticking up against the dark sky. A muffled snorting sound issued from behind the farthest tree-stump, by the water. Versayr?

  As Ulran crossed grass and upturned soil and stone, he glimpsed the shape of a horse’s head between two stumps.

  The stallion showed up clearly now, black against the grey of teen.

  For a moment Ulran wondered why Versayr had not climbed up the crumbled bank, for it was shallow enough to negotiate; but then he spotted the bared roots of a leech-tree stump, reaching out. Needle-thin roots were entwined about the animal’s neck and legs. Already Ulran thought he could detect discoloration around the roots, where the tree sucked the animal’s blood.